


… thicker than blood

by the_writing_owl



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, scout just needs a fatherfigure damnit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writing_owl/pseuds/the_writing_owl
Summary: His last job should also be the oddest one: A petty private war, fueled by a company that tested experimental machines and weaponry.He had never been a team player - out of necessity and his own will, and he sure as hell had never been someone another person honestly looked up to, relied on even. It was a bloody strange feeling, to say the least!Yes, he had wanted to turn his live around and maybe he had underestimated, how stuck in his own ways he had become over the more than twenty years of his career as a marksman. Being a maverick and only living for his work.Well, maybe it was time for more things to change than he had realized. If he wanted to, or not.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> So I was just drifting off to sleep when inspiration struck me and I had to write this down immediately, because who the hell needs rest anyway…..  
> Since I am currently writing on another “main project”, updates will be very slow. But to work on a story that, in its core, will evolve around a non romantic relationship, namely a parental one, is way too intriguing for me to pass up.
> 
> This story is not rated (yet). Most of it could pass as “T”, but my very European mindset tends to rate violence pretty high, even if it’s not overly explicit, to not risk disturbing younger readers by accident… So maybe let me know after a few chapters?  
> Till then – reader discretion is advised: There won't be overly graphic descriptions, but swearing and some talk about more “grown up” topics like, you know, murder and suicide. They are mercenaries after all. Plus a fair amount of blood, broken bones and later on, mentions of "relationships" will come up too… Ok, maybe I should just slap an “M” on this right away, huh?

He was good at his job.  
If his reputation and the amount of digits on his paychecks weren’t prove enough, then the simple fact, that his heart still was beating, had to be.  
But like every good thing, it must come to an end eventually.

Yes, he was good at his job, and he knew. But he also was aware, that he wouldn’t be able to hold his high standards up for much longer. Five or six years, if he picked his jobs well, maybe even a bit longer. But in the end, he would have to quit… or be killed. It was just the nature of things. The unforgiving truth of growing older.

When he walked down the street, people might still see a man in his better years. But when he had to lay motionless for almost days on end, when he had to hold his rifle steady for hours and then spring up and make a run for it, maybe even fight his way out when a situation had become sticky…. He knew that being one of the best counts for nothing, if you got your head blown off because your ears had failed you. And although he wasn’t that far gone yet, not by a long shot, he felt how his lower back ached almost daily, how his right knee wasn’t able to carry his weight through a careless spin so effortlessly anymore, and how his former perfect vision started to fail him, especially in low light. Sure, there where painkillers for his protesting joints and prescription lenses for his shooting glasses, but that wouldn’t save his backside in the long run. No, he had to start thinking about a way out.

Something that wasn’t made easier by the fact that he wasn’t exactly one of the good guys. To be fair, nobody who made a career out of killing people was. But at least he was a professional. That had to be worth something, right?  
His kills were clean, his demeanor polite, and his style efficient to an almost frightening level. Well, at least he had known all along that - if you planned to live to see old age, it was a wise choice to not make yourself a whole assortment of enemies along the way, but to put in the effort to craft a good name for yourself instead. So maybe him sticking to his own rules of professionalism had really payed off in the end, as he was presented with one hell of an opportunity.

It had taken more effort on his part than he had anticipated. That young sheila, his new employer had sent forward, obviously knew how to fight dirty over a contract. But a little more than two decades worth of experience in contract negotiations had told him well enough to stand his ground. To be honest, it helped a great deal that, ultimately, both parties profited from his demand to get him off the grid. Make him fly under the radar, so that the wheelings and dealings of Mann Co. weren’t compromised because one of their better known mercenaries got picked up by the cops or an over enthusiastic bounty hunter. Compromises were made. He would turn a few heads into colored rain free of pay and without any questions, before he took up his responsibilities in this curious war they wanted him to fight in, and they would help him cover his tracks as efficiently as possible. Tombstone and all…

Now he just had to keep his profile low for the few years this contract demanded of him, and then he could start anew. With the money he had saved and continued to make, there could be a nice, quiet future waiting for him. A piece of land, deep in the outback, as remote as one could think. He would be alone, but he would have his peace. It was more than he deserved, clearly. But worth a try nonetheless.

He never had thought, that the prospect of dying of old age in ones sleep was his biggest hope for his future. But for someone, who had given death prematurely in so many ways for so many years, who had been hunter but also prey, who had witnessed enough to destroy even a faithful mans respect for humanity, less alone his own, it was something to look forward to.

He just had to not fuck this up. Keep his head down and his profile low. How hard could that be, for a professional like him?

\----------------------------

Sniper slid down the wall, biting back the painful moan, that tried to work his way up his throat.  
He pressed his right hand against the gaping wound in his abdomen, knowing full well that his actions did nothing to save his live. He would bleed out. Doesn’t matter how fast, actually.

Sure, he could _try_ and call for the batshit insane German, that had been hired as their medic, but the chances of him being heard in time were very slim and besides, calling for help wasn’t his style anyway. It was the same goddamned stubbornness that prevented him from lifting his fingers from the life draining injury. Or grabbing for the pistol next to his feet to end his own suffering. The Australian cocked his head, pondering over the tactical advantage of suicide.

If respawn picked him up in two minutes, rather than half an hour, it would be beneficial for his team. Yeah, he really should just help things along, it was the most efficient route to take. But…

“Fuck.” it was more a snarl than a proper formulated word. The pain was something he just could not get used to. Sure, he had gotten injured in the past, quite badly even, but there had always been a sliver of hope. The prospect of beating the reaper one more time. To grow from this, to get even better, that had urged him to stand up and just try to survive. But you would not believe, how being shot, stabbed, blown to pieces or burned alive almost every day of the goddamn week, took it out of a man. Nonetheless, he would not choose the easy way out. Not him!

The Marksman looked at the weapon one last time, before it and its former owner dissolved into thin air. Claimed by a machine, that sounded like it originated from a cheap science fiction novel or out of a bloody game, but was as real as the pain, that shot through his body with every breath he took. Even with the adrenalin dulling it down, it was hardly bearable. Slowly he lifted one hand to his face, taking off his glasses. His vision had started to shift in and out of focus anyway, so it was no use keeping the blood splattered thing on. He rubbed over his eyes with the back of his left hand, finally allowing himself to let out a contorted groan. 

And then it hit him and he could not help than laugh at the silly realization that had popped into his slowly fading mind: How funny it was, that he had to die so often in order to someday be able to live out his golden years in peace.

  
  



	2. Be observant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write spoken words phonetically will prompt me to smash my head against my desk someday. So please bare with me and add accents and dialects in your head ^^ I will throw in a few single words and phrases here and there for flavor, but will refrain from otherwise ruining, for example, everyone's favorite drunk, Scottish cyclops wonderful way of half slurred speaking. Deal?

The battle was over, for now.

The Mercenaries of RED had won this round, bringing home a much needed victory after three consecutive days of loosing. The cheers of his teammates echoed down the tiled hallway, growing louder and more boisterous with every step that brought Sniper closer to resupply. The thick red stripe, that ran along the wall, was halfheartedly patched up in places, same with the floor. Stray bullets, among other projectiles, had left their marks, and without even thinking about it, the marksman’s fingers started to grace along the painted line.

The faint sound of his boot heels hitting the ground broke off when he reached the door. He now was able to distinguish between the different voices, and even made out fragments of sentences in the potpourri of noises. The Aussie rolled his shoulders back, pulling himself up to stand straight. When he had to mingle with civilians, Sniper had always found it to be a good idea to slouch a little. It made a tall man appear less threatening, and way less memorable, but around eight other mercenaries, he figured that it could not be disadvantageous to subtly remind them of his - rather impressive - height from time to time. 

As he pushed open the door, a wave of sound and smell crashed over him.

Medics high pitched, cackling laughter hit his ears and layered itself over the rasp and rumbling voice of their Russian colleague, with whom he chatted near the entry. It was the audible equivalent to the neon tube light, that was used to illuminating the place. Bright, harsh and seemingly only simulating something that normally was natural and comforting.

Soldier was marching up and down, holding one of his disjointed speeches about how the American spirit had crushed the enemy again, and how their sacrifices on the glorious battlefield had paved their way to this triumph. His movements where sharp and often embellished with wide gestures, so that, when he spun around, leaned forward or snapped into attention, his oversized and never properly strapped on helmet followed the movement with a second of delay, allowing the others to catch a glimpse of his piercing blue eyes, that always held something manic in them, when he spoke about war or his beloved home country. Which were, as everybody quickly had learned, his two favorite topics of conversation by far.

Lockers where carelessly thrown shut, a wooden bat clattered to the floor and the high screeching sound of protesting metal told everyone, that Engie was pulling his toolbox closer to himself. A very distinctive smell, dominated by sweat, dirt, oil, and blood, filled the air of the windowless room. And in between, like a silver thread, floated a light, vaguely minty haze of the medigun’s vapors.

It almost felt like a substantial thing. Like he had opened a floodgate. Just for a second, his movements had slowed down, before he took his first step into the chaos, letting the door fall close in his back. His presence didn’t disturbed the ongoing shenanigans. It never did, since the marksman was always one of the last to clear the battleground.

As the Australian crossed the room with measured steps, a few hands were casually lifted in greeting. A simple politeness he responded to in kind, but nobody really broke their conversation to address their sniper, who lowered himself down onto a bench and started to look over his weapons. It was the professional thing to do, and it gave him a good reason to sit there and pass time till most of the commotion had faded out, before cleaning himself up. It wasn’t that the Aussie was prudish, but he always had liked his privacy, and seeing that their communal bathroom didn’t contain shower cabins or anything alike, but just consisted of tiled walls with shower heads directly fixed into them, he preferred to have a little more space between himself and the others.

Since the maintenance of his tools had come second nature to him over the years, the marksman was quite easily able to keep tabs on his surroundings while cleanup, so the sudden hand on his shoulder came to no surprise and his fingers continued their practiced moves without a hitch. Sniper didn’t need to look up, to know who had approached him. Even if he hadn’t had seen him coming in his peripheral vision, the shift in the air, or better said, in the stench that filled this place, would have told him anything he needed to know.

“G’day Demo.”

“Aye laddy! Just wanted to say thanks to ya. Your bullet saved me arse from that bloody spy just in time!” The slightly sweet smell of alcohol had accompanied the words, that were still spoken surprisingly clearly for the fact, that there was a win to celebrate. Although, another loose would have been a good enough reason for the Scot to drink too. That man always carried a flask around, no matter the time, day, or occasion.

The Aussie sheeted his Kukri while looking up to his one-eyed colleague: “No worries mate, just doing my job.” **  
**The demolition expert gave a loud, hearty laugh and another clap on his shoulder, before walking off. He was a cheery fella, who showed a friendly and open demeanor towards his teammates. He knew, how to handle his explosives but also, sadly, his liqueur. The tall figure shook his head. It really didn’t took a genius to see, that the man was a highly functional alcoholic. Well, this place was the last to judge someone for their live choices and besides, nobody needed his two cents to decide on how to spend their time anyway. But it was a shame, wasn’t it? Sniper had seen more than one mercenary seeking relieve at the bottom of a bottle, and it hadn’t ended well for any of them.

Standing up, he stretched his arms over his head, earning a satisfying crack in his back from the motion. The sharpshooter stored his weaponry away, at least for the moment, grabbed a spare of work clothes plus the small, worn out bag with his toiletries, and headed to the showers.

The changing room was completely empty and the hampers filled up to the brim with damp towels and the parts of their uniforms, they didn’t mind being handled by whoever was on laundry duty. The faint sound of running water told him, that he would not be completely alone. Recounting in his head who he had seen enter and leave resupply, there was not much room for speculation on whom he would find. Without anyone around to hear him, Sniper sighed. He pulled his glasses from his face, placing them inside his hat. After blinking a few times to allow his eyes to adjust, he pulled a towel out of the small linen closet next to the door, and walked in.

A wall of steam greeted him, as soon as the Aussies bare feet stepped over the threshold. The punching sent of artificial vanilla filled his nose, and since it was carried by the moist air, it soon lingered as an unpleasant taste on the back of his tongue. The beige flooring was speckled in places with blood and other grime of that sort, where the other men had washed the remnants of their day job from their bodies before. Puddles of lukewarm water had collected on the uneven floor between the drains, which was slick from a soapy film and amidst all of this, there was Pyro, happily scrubbing away. The bright yellow brush, that was firmly gripped in a gloved hand, worked hard to get the suit clean again. The arsonist hummed a blithely tune, that was barely audible through his custom built mask and the splashing of water. A big bottle of the cheapest, scented body wash rested next to the booted feet.  
Sniper cleared his throat “Hello there Pyro.”   
The addressed fire lover turned around abruptly, rubbing a free hand over the fogged up glass that shielded his eyes. He cocked his head and stared at him for a few long seconds. “Won’t need long here.” That earned the sharpshooter a few incomprehensible mumbles and a friendly wave of the hand. The other mercenary didn’t seem to mind the company. But it was always better to be safe than sorry. Especially with Pyro - The arsonist was just a special brand of crazy, which was quite an accomplishment, considering the company.

A series of memories flashed before Snipers inner eye. Things he had seen through his scope. It was frankly disturbing to watch how much … _fun_ the pyromaniac seemed to have on the battlefield. Granted, none of his colleagues appeared to be fully sane in that regard. But it wasn’t comparable to, for example, Heavy, who was laughing while firing his minigun, or the way their loudmouthed scout taunted after smashing in a skull. Hell, not even Medic seemed so at ease while inflicting pain and suffering, though he absolutely loved to fire his syringes at them with a crossbow, which was hurting like hell for a few seconds every time, before eventually the medigun fluid kicked in, accompanied by him shouting excitedly, how to hurt someone would have been so much more rewarding than healing.   
No, all that, he could write off to the rush of adrenaline, as a simple show or scare tactics. At least most of it. But with Pyro.... he seemed so _honestly_ happy. Almost childlike in his giddiness. Skipping around, happily melting the flesh off of his opponents bones or crushing them under his sledgehammer or with his fire axe. Clapping his hands while standing in front of a burning building, reveling in the sight of blood spurting out of an opponent like a fountain in a park, and then washing said blood away with vanilla scented, bubbly body wash, humming a jolly tune without a care in the world.

When the Aussie lathered his hair with shampoo, he used the movement to cover him peeking over his shoulder and saw the other play with a little rubber duck, holding the thing oh so carefully, tilting it left and right. Completely lost in his own little world, he put a pile of bubbles atop the rubber beak and giggled joyfully in doing so. Pyro tended to underestimate his own strength, and obviously could not understand others fear of him or the fire he seemed to adore so much. Sniper lowered his gaze and it wasn’t the first time the marksman had to ask himself, if the arsonist even knew what he was doing half of the time. But again, not his business….

Not much later, the Aussie stepped into the kitchen. He placed the case containing his rifle next to the doorway and put his hat atop it, revealing that his hair was still damp and slightly mussed from the towel. The downside of showing up late for dinner, was that he often had to make do with whatever was left of the meal. On the other hand, it meant that almost everybody should already be done eating and had headed out again. For Sniper, that sounded like an acceptable tradeoff.

He fixed himself a plate and sat down at the dining table. Next to him, only Engie was still present, nursing a cup of coffee. They exchanged a cord nod without breaking the rare silence of the room. Both men appreciating a bit of quiet rest after a long days work between whizzing bullets and deafening explosions.  
For a while, only the sound of silverware dragging over ceramic and the occasional rustling of the engineers newspaper where disrupting the peaceful quietness. Well, if you ignored the muffled calls from the community room.   
By the time Sniper was rinsing off his plate, the cries for Demo to make a toast where growing loud enough to carry clearly through the walls. The shorter of the two men let out a chuckle. “The boys can get noisier than two skeletons dancing on a tin roof.”   
“More like a whole cemetery”, the sharpshooter answered, voice completely even as he tossed the cutlery into the designated metal basket.   
The tinkerer looked up from his reading material, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.   
“Planning to play mortician?”   
That provoked a smile to ghost over the marksman lips, but his answer was nonetheless a short “Naw mate”.   
Engie opened his mouth again, probably to tell that he wasn’t joining either, when the kitchen door opened up again. Both mercenaries shifted their attention to see the newcomer who, for some reason, seemed quite surprised to find anyone still occupying the place.   
“Hey there partner.”

The narrow shoulders of the runner immediately straightened out, his chin went up and his face quickly changed from a more pensive expression to a wide, buck toothed grin. “Oh hey guys! What’s up?”  
As to be expected, Engie beat the lanky sharpshooter to an answer and gave the youngest member of their team a warm smile. “Not much.” He folded the newspaper and placed it in the middle of the table. “But don’t tell me all y’all have run out of beer already?”   
“Huh? Oh, no. ‘Cause not, I just wanted to grab a quick bite is all.”   
The two of them quickly fell into a nice chat, one Sniper tuned out from, as he turned back to dry his hands off and to put away the remaining leftovers, so that they didn’t go to waste. After that had been taken care off, he stalled for a moment, eying the already brewed coffee. He could really stand a cup. “Anyone else?” he asked, while holding up the half empty pot.   
Scout pulled face: “No way man, I hate that stuff.”   
“Fine. Engie?”   
The Texan shook his head. “No thanks Stretch”, and glanced at the worn down wristwatch he used to wear after work, so that he didn’t lose track of time when tinkering in his workshop. “Darn it. Times running again today.”   
In the meantime the Aussie had parked himself on the first best chair and dragged the abandoned newspaper closer to skim over the headlines.   
“I should get going. If I stay any longer I won’t get anything else done, and there are a lot of blueprints waiting for me.” He sounded earnest, but there was a slight trace of hesitation in Engie’s movements as he got up. His attention lingered on the boy till he was almost at the door, before he decided to let go off whatever was bugging him, and just wished the others a nice evening.   
Sniper lifted his hand as to tip his head. “Till then, Truckie.”   
“Have fun in your den, Hardhat.”

An unexpected calm took possession of the room again. Something that technically should be impossible with the runner around. Sniper deliberately choose to just take this bit of luck and idly flipped through the paper, noticing a half finished crossword puzzle and it took him a tick to remember, that Heavy had started to solve these over breakfast to better his English. The sharpshooter had seen him doing so a handful of times before, when the siren call of a substantial breakfast had been too alluring to pass up.   
After almost twenty minutes, taken by a light curiosity, he lifted his eyes to focus on the unusually reticent Scout and, since he was sitting quite comfortably and didn’t feel the urge to shift, he did so over the edge of his glasses. The runner was fiddling with his grip tape, with unfocused eyes that gazed at the empty table beneath his fingers. After another moment, he began to worry his lower lip for a minute or two, before he switched from doing that to tapping his foot and cracking his knuckles.   
“Scout?”

That startled the boy more than it should, stopping his fidgeting in an instant. He shrugged his stupor off quickly, flashing his trademark million-watt smile. “Sorry pally, ya said something?”  
“Weren’t you here to grab a snack or something?”   
Scouts smile faltered under a questioning frown. “Aw right!” He dramatically slapped his hand against his forehead and laughed. “Man, guess I really am tired today, huh? Completely forgot why I came in.”   
Sniper considered that statement for a second. “Better to turn in early tonight then?”

“Yeah, probably. But hey, no wonder, right? Me securing the intelligence basically won us the whole damn match today!”

The marksman turned over another page of the newspaper, shrugging lightly at the comment. “Sure was part of it.” He had grown used to the constant boasting of the boy and generally didn’t mind as much as some of the others. The kid was young and, contrary to other armed men with a mouth too big for their own good, he had the luxury of having access to a respawn system in his back. So there was a high chance that the ankle biter would learn and grow out of it.  
Scout started to pick at his grip tape again. “Hey, won’t that keep you awake?” he gestured to the already half empty mug.

The older glanced down to his beverage. He was so desensitized to coffee, that one sole cup a few hours before bed did precisely nothing to his system. On the flip side, if he really needed the brew to kick him into gear, he had to down three cups in short order to feel at least some effect. “Naw.”

The Bostonian waited another handful of seconds, if his teammate would further the conversation, but when he didn’t, the boy nodded, maybe even a bit disappointed. Then he pushed himself out of his seat, stalling again for another few heartbeats. “Ok… ehm...see ya around I guess.”

“Sure mate.”

The door fell shut and Sniper shifted his attention fully back to his reading material. But for the first sentences, his eyes drifted over the ink without really grasping the meaning of the letters. The Aussie looked up to the empty seat his young colleague had have occupied, shaking his head after a heartbeat or two.

_Hope he sorts himself out before battle tomorrow._


End file.
